The Unkillable Man
by RogerD
Summary: Dexter meets a man that will not die.


**Chapter 2**

It was a cold night and the man walked out of the bar in an old fashioned raincoat. Not that it was raining, but the clouds looked pregnant and ready to burst. Emerging from a shadow stabbed the dual syringes into the man's neck and squeezed, pushing the drug cocktail into his system. Thankfully he fell like a rag doll in his arms.

His eyes opened with a start, only to find himself on a bed of some kind, strapped to it by clear plastic wrapping. He lifted his head and realised that he was also naked. "Oh crap!" A man stood over him wearing a dark green apron, a clear faceplate used by welders, having light blonde hair, and when the light caught it right, strawberry blonde.

"You haven't changed from your picture from twenty years ago. You sure have a good surgeon".

"You don't know the half of it"

"I don't really know what to call you, you have so many names". With a gesture, to get attention, pointed at a board, a display that had pictures on men he had recently killed. "These are your victims. Know now that as you meet your end they will finally get justice". He saw the blade descend, puncturing his chest, and his heart. The man breathed a sigh of relief and took the blade out like he got a kick out of this.

"You sick son of a bitch". Dexter was shocked, not only had he pierced a lung, but also his victims heart. _This man could not be alive. _Watching in horror as the wound healed with flecks of lightning under the skin. "Let me out of here!" Frantic he reached for a bigger blade, concerned as the man easily broke the plastic sheeting. This was the same thickness he'd used to restrain that drug dealer, _second time around at any rate_. He grabbed the ornate Katana in perfect condition, one that by contrast the man had concealed in a ratty raincoat, now decades out of date. _Oh well, so much for plans_, and swung the weapon, _there was no real way to dodge in this enclosed space_.

Astounded when not only was the attacked dodged, but immediately flowed back into range again, _like water. _It defied human ability and speed, effortlessly executing an outer wrist lock and in the process disarming Dexter. The blade was placed at his throat, the threat clear. "I could kill you". A powerful stamping front kick sent him reeling against a wall, gasping for breath and retching. For some reason had chosen not to, _or rather chosen to not to kill yet_ he thought chiding himself.

"Where are my clothes?" Feebly Dexter pointed to a black bin liner. The sword was placed back on the table, while he got dressed. Finally the man put on his white thin soled trainers, placed the sword in a scabbard, and it was once again concealed in the coat. One killer strode towards the other, confidence in each step, which seemed to contain the coiled aggression and poise of a tiger about to strike. A well manicured hand grabbed his face and jaw, squeezing with a strength that belied a slight frame. Pain flashed in Dexter's eyes.

"What kind of sicko are you?" the man asked rancorously. "Do you get a kick out of it?"

Dexter never saw the backhand that impacted, as stars swam before his eyes. He shook his head trying the clear his vision, and was rewarded with more pain. "That won't work, only makes it hurt more. But pain can be as good as pleasure sometimes".

He looked up quickly, the pain suddenly gone. _Had the man really said that_, seeing the humanity draining from his eyes to reveal the cold dark malevolence of a killer – _a true killer of men_. His mouth was dry for a second, _having never encountered anyone similar to him_, other than his deceased brother – dead by his hand. His quarry opened the door, letting moon and starlight flood the room and walked out into the night air and took a deep breath.

"Don't ever come near me again", slipping off silently into the night as though more at home there than anywhere else.

Slowly Dexter stood, gathering his bearings. This had all gone horribly wrong, the man being far stronger than was humanly possible, but also healing from a fatal wound right before his eyes. _What was he?_ Despite the danger, he just had to find out. Eyes sweeping right and left couldn't see anyone, or anything. No one could move that quick. _Could they?_ Doubt clouded his mind. Realisation dawned _the man had seen his face, and killing his prey was now imperative_, fear gripped his heart -concern that Rita, and the kids would learn of his secret. He set off a jog.

A shove sent him off balance, which was swiftly followed a vicious kick which sent the forensic scientist to the ground, tasting hot salty blood on his lips. He spat the iron smelling liquid on the floor contemptuously, eyes now ablaze with anger looked at the assailant. This was not his victim, but someone Doakes had arrested earlier. _Twice someone had surprised him and it was rare for anyone to be able to do that_.

"Leave him alone" remarked Dexter's victim with a slight Scottish brogue. "He has no part in this".

The unnamed man, of definite African descent regarded the other with slight amusement answered with a deep Jamaican accent. "What's it to you mon? I'm gonna send a message to the police", cracking a smile showing perfectly white teeth, contrasting with dark skin like the night; holding an ornate sabre that would have been used during the American Civil War. He noticed the ornate handle on the Katana, _a dragon's head_, as combatants swung at each other. Their skill was way beyond his, and not only slightly but vastly out of his league. Each attack and counter a blur of steel and movement, almost a ritual dance ­–_ a dance of death_.

Leaning against a post on the quayside, "Don't you guys ever use guns?" he smirked.

His prey answered without looking. "Haven't you learnt anything boy, they don't work on us"

"You don't have to do this", ducking underneath a cut so fast to appear behind the Jamaican. A Japanese sword protruding from the African's chest, it was like a watching an Elephant spear a man with its tusk. Blood bubbled on the Jamaicans lips. From this angle it was clear that the sword had severed the spinal column too – _this man would never walk again, if he lived which was doubtful. _The sword was removed with a wet sucking noise, blood poured all over his hands, and raincoat. White lightning appeared beneath the Jamaican's skin, _he was healing_.

"There can be only one!" A slice so fast as to be almost invisible caused a head to roll fifteen feet, landing at his feet. He regarded it curiously; the mouth smiled showing its pearly white knashers. Ropes of white lightning erupted from the headless body, hitting the man who seemed to absorb it all. It was like a localised lightning storm, complete with mini-hurricane. A tendril of energy bounced from boat to boat like a ricocheting bullet, each engine suddenly started and revved pulling all the ropes taught.

Dexter's face drained of all blood, _what was he? Not human at any rate_. He stepped back slowly, a real emotion for once in his life ­– _fear, terror_. He barely noticed, in clinical curiosity that there were no obvious signs of burning as white mist lifted the killer into the air.

Within a second it was over.

He walked towards the sea, washing the blood off his hands, trying his best to get it off his coat. "This'll never come out. Have to buy a new one now" he remarked to no one in particular. Dexter continued to back away. "What are you?" he breathed, "A demon?" Eyes were wide with fear, "A god?" Walking over he wiped the blade on the dead mans trousers, drying his hands on the corpses t-shirt. Although the lips curved upward into a smile, the eyes were cold, bereft of humanity, "I've been called that and a lot worse".

"Are you going to kill me?" asked Dexter, ashamed to realise he was cowering.

"If anyone leaves a trail of headless bodies in their wake, maybe you'll leave me and my kind alone?" He understood the implicated and obvious threat, nodding.

In a bur of motion the sword was gone, and the man walked away. His top lip was covered in sweat, even though it was not hot, even the chill night breeze did not help. Shivering involuntarily as though someone had stepped on his grave, clinical curiosity got the better of his judgement.

The whisky went down with the usual burn, having a sort of bland taste compared to that flavoursome oak and smoky texture he preferred. _Watered down garbage_! He frankly had no idea why he had bought it. Scoping around the bar caught the eye of several attractive women, who seemed eager to flirt and to please. It was then the door opened, and using peripheral vision saw his so called killer walk in the door. _So much for getting sex tonight_,

Dexter sat opposite the man with the Scottish brogue, scared and nervous at the same time. It felt strange to experience real emotion, the terror from earlier was somewhat in abeyance. He tried to swallow, mouth was dry again, and stuck out his hand.

"Dexter". Those cold dark eyes, dropped any humanity again, _they made him squirm. _

Without bothering to look up, "I told you to never bother me again". His hand went slightly limp, and the other sighed.

"Connor", but still no handshake, a peace offering between killer and prey, although he used to know which he was; but facing whoever this was it seemed the roles were reversed. He put his hand back on the table, not sure what to say. "You're like me", and realised a dark look was etched across Connor's face. "Well other than you healing and that lightning storm, back there", his voice had cracked somewhat showing nerves. "You do heal from any wound though?"

Shuffling under Dexter's gaze slightly, "What's it to you?" Not sure whether to kill the psychopath or not. "Why did you want to kill me?"

On more familiar ground once more, "It was the way I was taught".

He smirked. "Who taught you, and I want an answer!" whispered the immortal. Those eyes bored into his, making in clear that if a satisfactory answer was not forthcoming, death was assured. "My dad, well adopted dad anyway"

He watched Connor take another drink, "Go on".

Taking a deep breath, "My dad noticed that I was different and tried to teach me to kill only certain types of people, helped me hide my true nature"

His sarcasm was venomous, "How very civic minded of him".

Without thinking he answered, and immediately realised his error, "He was a policeman".

Again the comment was without mirth, "Create his own vigilante; get you to kill those he couldn't bring to justice". Again that smile, a whole depth of emotions hidden beneath. "And that makes you like me? I don't think so".

He was not sure how to answer that.

"You're a psycho, and you need real help".

Anger bubbled over, "That doesn't it give you the right to judge me!" Dexter suddenly realised his comment was a little too boisterous, hoping the music had drowned his outburst. "My dad was a good man".

"You have your doubts though" answered Connor, "otherwise you wouldn't seek to defend him".

Cheeks flushing, and stung as though slapped, "Hardly, he taught me a set of values to live up, abide by".

He looked up, laughing at his own joke, albeit it being somewhat cruel humour. "'Cos you were unable to decide that for yourself? Your school must have been littered with bodies".

"Oh and you're any better are you?" he retorted, "cutting people's head off". All of a sudden a wave of violence crashed over Dexter, making him gasp, clearly overstepping some boundary and knew he would pay with his life. He felt eyes boring into his back and all of a sudden potential of violence vanished.

A certain bald detective walked over and "There you are" he remarked belligerently. "Been looking for you everywhere"

Connor did not like the whoever this was, making his dislike obvious. "We were talking" he said sonorously. "Its private discussion", and ignored the bald black-man, o_bviously a cop_. "Well now I'm butting in, I'm Detective Doakes" he said, "Pleased to meet one of your friends Dex", he extended a hand which was ignored.

"We're not friends".

Watching as Doakes withdrew his hand to look Connor in the eye, blatantly a challenging stare. All of a sudden his colleague's eyes began to droop, legs swaying to some unheard music. _What was he doing to him? He clearly had some kind of power; hypnotism?_ Catching his balance on the table before he fell, anger evident on his face, "What the hell did you do to me?"

Doakes grabbed the man's arm, who lifted the arm reflexively, in a casual 'get off me gesture'. _The man's strength was extraordinary_, the motion sending Doakes flying uncontrollably across the room, crashing into the bar. People laughed, and others watched his companion wearily.

He landed heavily, obviously winded, exhaling as the breath was forced out o him. Angrily grabbing a table to help him stand, watching as the Doormen walked over; he pulled out his Detective badge. "Police, now step back mother fucker!" something screamed happiness inside as they raised hands and retreated. Drawing his gun looked at Dexter, only to find his companion was no longer there.

He'd never seen Connor move, only to find the masquerading human standing next to Doakes, "Looking for me Detective", jabbing him in the head with a fingertip; obviously some unknown pressure point. Consciousness fled from Doakes as he sank to the floor like a rag doll. Connor walked by Dexter, pointing, "Stay away from me".

Just like that, he was gone, vanished into the night like a phantom or shadow; and _maybe that is just what he was – a shadow moving within society_.

Autor note:

This could form Chapter 2 of Man of Swords, if it was be placed chronologically.


End file.
